


and i hope there's someone

by hubrisandwax



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Brian's in it as a cockblock only, I'd Say I'm Sorry but I'm not, M/M, also bi mandy hahahha, and svetlana and yev are in this but yev isn't mickey's son, and svetlana is a stranger, coffee shop AU, include mentions of bi!lip and bi!fiona, it's /happy/ okay, it's me after all; i needed some kind of tension, lip is with joaquin and fiona is with angela bc i'm trash, lol, mandy's at art school, mickey runs the cafe with mandy, only a little angst, this fic was my happy place okay it's self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3721573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubrisandwax/pseuds/hubrisandwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey and Mandy move across the country to NYC and open a coffee shop on Bleecker Street. </p><p>AKA 10k worth of that coffee shop AU no-one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i hope there's someone

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this as a means of trying to ease my feelings post that shitshow of a finale when i couldn't even look at canon fic or the superhero au i'm working on without feeling sick. it's... fluffy, and happy, and Mickey's pretty snarky in it, but i felt that it was appropriate. "i work in hospitality" said Mickey in 4x08; well now, at least in this, it's legal, haha.
> 
> i want to thank my beta, [Honey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/purrugly), for putting up with my fic and drawing all over my printed doc, and [Elena](http://northsfire.tumblr.com) for cheerleading me through the ending ♥
> 
> also, as a disclaimer: all quirky stories that take place in this fic actually happened. my mum has worked in the industry for 30+ years, and i grew up in her café (where i am resident barfly). the coffee shop in this fic is based loosely on it.
> 
> title taken from the [Antony and the Johnsons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8b5HHRT8xvw) song ([Avicii's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5M-pUCtcwmw) version is great, too).

He saunters through the doors at eight am with hair the color of fall and a smile that seems like it could split his face in two, and just looking at him makes Mickey want to punch something.

Approaching the counter, he says, “Hi there,” his smile growing impossibly wider. “Can I take a medium drip with-"

“Does this look like a fuckin’ Starbucks to you?” Mickey interrupts, throwing a dishtowel over his shoulder and raising his eyebrows. The guy’s mouth snaps closed; he looks surprised.

“Mick!” Mickey hears Mandy yell warningly from the kitchen. He doesn’t give a fuck. If people are gonna come in here and order shit coffee – who cares if they think he’s a pretentious dick.

The redhead just starts grinning again, like Mickey’s not being an asshole, and says, “Well, then, I’ll take what you recommend.”

“Whatever.” Mickey represses the urge to roll his eyes. “Milk?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Mickey decides to make him a flat white, because he looks pretty flat and very white. Well - aside from the hair. And his mouth.

“You’re really into coffee making, aren’t you?” the guy says, after a beat. Of course he’s a fucking small talker. Mickey makes a non-committal noise and shrugs while pouring the milk, because really, it’s none of his fucking business. Doesn’t seem to put him off, though. “Been busy today?”

“Why do you care?” Mickey grabs the group and side-eyes the fuck outta the guy.

“I think independent business is important,” he responds, raising one shoulder, smiling that easy smile. Mickey grunts.

Mandy appears behind him, then, tossing her hair behind her shoulder, smirking. “Ignore my fuckhead brother. It’s not you; he always acts like someone’s pissed in his Cheerios.”

The dude starts laughing, so Mickey intentionally starts grinding the coffee and packing the group to drown out the sound. God, some people.

“Ian,” the guy says, once he can be heard.

“Mandy,” Mandy says, “and this little shit is Mickey. His bark is worse than his bite, really.”

Mickey makes sure the milk screams _really loudly_ as he steams it.

“It’s a great little place you’ve got here. I’ve been meaning to come here for lunch – I just moved into the area.”

Thank God: Mickey finishes making the coffee and thrusts it at the guy. “That’s three bucks,” he says, holding his palm out expectantly. Ian fishes in his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and hands over a five-dollar bill.

“Keep the change,” he says.

Mickey crosses his arms and tries to look intimidating. Ian laughs again, the sound causing goose-bumps to erupt across the back of Mickey’s neck, and waves as he leaves.

Releasing a breath that he doesn’t realize he was holding, Mickey starts to wipe down the bench with a little too much force. He swears under his breath.

“He was gorgeous,” Mandy says.

“If you’re into anemic-looking gingers who don’t know where the fuck to put their limbs.”

Mandy pushes his shoulder, says, “Oh, shut the fuck up, Mickey,” and leaves to finish prepping.

Mickey totally doesn’t hope that Ian will come in the following day.

 

* * *

 

The coffee shop is located on New York City’s Lower West Side, stuck between a smoke shop and a bar on Bleecker. Mandy wanted to call it _Mickey and Mandy’s_ , because she found it amusing, but Mickey outright refused and said that it was way too fucking gimmicky. Instead they agreed on _South Side Coffee_. He thinks it’s kind of ironic.

The place itself is pretty fucking tiny, with only the space for about six tables, a counter, a coffee machine, and a very small kitchen. It’s okay, though, because they only wanted to do basic food like sandwiches and salads. Mickey also refuses to serve anything that isn’t espresso. The coffee market’s oversaturated with crap product, he says, and in order to make it, a place has to be different.

So far, it’s been going great. They’ve been open for six months, have been making a profit for three of those, and are living comfortably together in New York City - have been for five years. Mandy’s made a group of friends at art school and has started dating; Mickey’s been putting in longer hours to support Mandy and is happy with the occasional hook-up. It’s Mickey’s baby, after all, and he’s happy to do anything to make it work.

Well, anything if it means getting his sister and himself the fuck away from Terry.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, Mickey walks in just after the lunch rush to find Ian sitting with Mandy at table five. He glares at them and intentionally makes a lot of noise as he steps behind the counter: flushing the machine, feeding steam through the nozzle, banging the excess grinds into the bin. “You done the ordering?” he calls across to them just as Mandy bursts into a fit of giggles.

“Hey Mickey,” Ian says, mouth quirking up at the edge. Mickey just stares at him.

Mandy sighs theatrically. “Goddam Oscar the Grouch,” he hears Mandy say to Ian in an undertone, before she twists around to look at him. “I’ve been working here for as long as you have, asswipe.”

Mickey just raises his eyebrows. Ian says, “Your coffee’s great by the way, man. Best I’ve had in a fucking long time.”

“You here for another?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t forget me, bro,” Mandy says, tilting her head and winking at him before turning back towards Ian, probably to keep flirting with him. Fucking sisters. Fucking attractive straight dudes who want to bang his sister.

“Get back to work,” he says, almost a growl. Mandy pouts and flips him the bird over her shoulder. Mickey’s response is to turn the music up louder; The Get Up Kid’s _Something To Write Home About_ is playing on repeat, because Mickey refuses to listen to anything that isn’t prehistoric emo while working. Thankfully there are no other customers.

He pointedly tries to ignore his sister and Ian, who are talking very animatedly to each other, but Ian keeps sending him these little glances when he thinks Mickey isn’t looking, so eventually Mickey gives up on cleaning and winds up making three coffees. Taking Ian and Mandy’s over, he dumps them unceremoniously on the thrift-shop table before returning with his own and a stack of bookwork. Mandy stares at him.

“You got a problem?” Mickey says, taking a sip of his long black, eyebrows twitching upward. Mandy shakes her head and smiles.

Ian touches Mickey’s shoulder. “Good to have you, Mick,” he says, grinning, like Mickey’s presence is a gift or some shit. Mickey just grunts and buries himself in the books, finding comfort in the wash of their voices. Ian’s not so bad, really, even if he looks like a curly ferret, and Mandy seems to really like him.

Mickey can put up with him if he makes his sister happy.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Not so bad_ might end up being the understatement of the century.

Ian becomes a regular feature at South Side. He’s in every day, first for a flat white in the morning, and then again for a sandwich at lunch. Mandy always takes her break at the same time he arrives, flouncing straight over to him and throwing her arms around his neck. Mickey nicknames him the orange barfly, because on the days Mandy doesn’t work, Ian sits at the counter in front of the machine and irritates the fuck out of Mickey by trying to engage him in conversation. It’s annoying as hell, but the more Mickey resists, the more eager Ian becomes – and his enthusiasm is obvious, even though he tries to play it as cool as Mickey does. He’s infuriating in the worst, and admittedly best, ways.

Mickey learns through overhead conversation that Ian works in advertising over in Hudson Square. He has five other siblings, is a Chicago Southside transplant himself, and lives with his brother in a small apartment around the corner.

“I remember your family,” Ian says a week after his first visit. He and Mandy are both sitting at the front counter, Ian’s fingers playing with the label on the bottle of Powerade he’s holding. Mickey finds it very distracting; he almost burns himself on a toasted sandwich. “The infamous Milkoviches.”

“I’m surprised we never crossed paths,” Mandy says. “Well, at least before Mickey bundled me onto the Gray Line and shipped me across the country.”

Looking wistful, Ian grins. “Think of the fun we could’ve had.”

If they’d met when they were teenagers, Mickey probably would have beaten Ian up, he thinks. Or tried to bang him. Maybe both. It’s a tough call, to be honest. He passes Ian’s coffee over to him, then Mandy’s, before he frowns and says, “With the amount of chatting you two do, I’m surprised we make any fucking money at all.”

“Hey, I have a magnetic pull,” Ian says, waggling his eyebrows. “People will see me here and wanna come in. I’m a lure.”

“Maybe for moths,” Mickey says.

Ian pokes his tongue out before replying, “I resent that.”

Mandy sighs irately. “Mickey, this is my break. Go rub your nozzle or flush for pipes or do whatever it is you baristas do.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says. Turning to read the dockets, he pulls a face, huffs, and flips her the bird over his shoulder.

Ian snickers in the background.

 

* * *

 

 

Mickey’s never had a proper relationship. He’s had a lot of flings. He likes going to bars, hooking up with guys, and never learning their names. Feelings – relationships – are messy. Mandy’s his best friend. That’s all he really needs.

However, one morning, as he’s making Ian’s flat white, Ian cracks some dumb joke about coffee tasting like mud because it was very recently ground, and as Mickey struggles not to snort out a laugh he realizes that, fuck, Ian is someone he actually wants to get to know.

He wants to, at least, be Ian’s friend.

  
He can’t look Ian in the eye as he hands across the takeaway cup, the knowledge sitting heavy in his stomach, and tries to count out Ian’s change. Ian, again, as always, tells him to keep it, grins, and walks out the door, totally ignorant to Mickey’s current predicament.  
Fucking asshole.

 

* * *

 

 

Saturdays are always Mickey’s favorite day of the week, because it’s when _Southside's_ busiest. Mandy’s better at the whole engaging-with-customers thing, but there’s something almost poetic, and definitely very methodical, about the repetitive motions of repeatedly making coffee.

Ian’s not the only steady customer. Mickey tends to identify regulars more by their coffee preference than by name, but whatever; it’s Mandy’s job to talk to them. He’s even getting better at matching personality types to orders.

Two of his favorite customers are a small boy and his mom who always bring their dog and tie it up outside, only to feed it the little boy’s crusts when they leave, and an older gay couple who look at each other in a way that Mickey just can’t describe. One of them is a cop – he knows that much, because he’s heard him talk about his work - and the other’s name is Carlos. They’re married and so obviously in love it’s almost nauseating, sometimes. Mickey’s in awe of how comfortable they are together, especially out in public.

They also always look at Mickey knowingly and give him a huge tip. Probably the hair, he thinks grimly.

He won’t even let himself hope to have something similar, ever, himself. Who’d want a piece of ex-Southside trash who’s pretending to be something he’s not in a city full of potentials? Good things happen to other people, not to Mickey Milkovich.

 

* * *

 

 

Not every day is a smooth run; sometimes, disasters happen.

A wedding party wants to book the café for a Friday evening, and Mickey’s not gonna say no to an additional five hundred bucks to do food and let them use his space. So they all come tumbling in at around six, cake in hand, and Mickey shoves it in the kitchen whilst he and Mandy get to making and carrying around the food they’ve made.

The group is pretty fucking awful. They keep speaking rudely to Mickey and Mandy, snapping their fingers or whistling when they want attention. Mandy keeps glancing around and saying very loudly, and very pointedly, to Mickey, “Where’s the dog?”  
And then, when Mickey gets back to the kitchen, he realizes that disaster has struck.

“Jesus fuck,” he says, loudly, and stares at the once-white cake, which has partially fallen into the lobster bucket and is covered in squid ink. Somehow, it’s dripped from the shelves above all over the cake. “Mandy!”

“What?” she says, appearing in the doorway. Noticing the problem at hand, she swears, too. “The fuck we gonna do?”

Mickey pulls the cake from the bucket, transfers it to a fresh plate, and tries to smooth the icing. It sort of works, but the cake still looks like a fucking dalmatian. He doesn’t have the ingredients to make a fresh batch of icing, so…

Glancing around the tiny space, he looks desperately for something, anything, white. It hits him suddenly, as he’s looking at the order sheets for next week. “Fucking liquid paper.”

“What the fuck?” Mandy says. “That’s mad.”

Mickey shrugs. “They’re assholes.”

“Isn’t that shit toxic?”

“Nah,” Mickey says, shifting through the stationary behind the bar. “You can get high off the smell, though, I think.”

“Great,” Mandy says, but she helps him look anyway.

Luckily, by the time the cake is served, everyone’s too drunk to realize that they’re eating lobster water and liquid paper. Mickey figures it’s a success, all in all. He pockets the $500 with a smile and a wave as the bride and groom compliment him on what a great evening they had as they stumble out the door.

Small miracles.

 

* * *

 

 

Another time, a man tries to touch Mandy’s breast as she’s putting a plate of biscuits and a pot of tea on the table.

So Mandy does the only logical thing she can think of and pours boiling tea all over his crotch.

The guy screams. Apologizing profusely and very insincerely, Mandy says, “I’m terribly sorry, sir! My hand slipped.”

Mickey watches the whole exchange. He stalks over to the table immediately, makes sure his knuckles are very visible, and says straight into the guy’s face, “Touch my sister again and I’ll cut off your fuckin’ balls.”

The guy and his friend fuck off straight away, leaving a twenty on the table. Mickey says to Mandy as she walks behind the counter, “Was that on purpose?”

She grins wider, trying to stifle her giggles, a wicked glint in her eyes, and says, “Definitely. And I’d do it again.”

“Four for you,” Mickey says, and grins right back.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a quiet Thursday afternoon. Dull fall sunlight falls through the windows, casting the interior of the café into desaturated tones. Ian’s set up a small office space in the corner, and were it anyone else, Mickey would have told them to fuck off hours ago, considering all he’s ordered is a sandwich and two coffees. As it stands, though, it’s Ian, and his presence is almost a comfort.

When the last customer leaves, Mickey makes himself a sandwich and takes it – along with two coffees and a cookie – over to Ian.

“How you goin’ with it?” Mickey says, setting the plates on the table and pulling up his own chair. Ian smiles at him and takes the offered coffee, looking grateful.

“Okay, I think. I have the structure of our campaign down. We just have to work on our pitch.”

Mickey nods, like he knows anything about advertising, and pushes the cookie towards Ian. “On the house. You look like you could do with some sugar.”

Ian’s smile becomes more of a grin. “Thanks, Mick. It’s better working here than at the office.” He breaks a corner off the cookie off before saying, out of the blue, “You smell good.”

Mickey’s brow furrows, his lip curling outward. “Huh?”

“You smell like coffee and bleach and… something else. I like it.”

Mickey always smells like coffee, even on the days he spends ten minutes trying to scrub the grinds out from under his nails in the shower, but he wasn’t sure that was a good thing. “Whatever you say, Gallagher.” He takes a bite of his sandwich. Hiding feelings behind a defensive wall of snark and cynicism has always worked, so why stop now.

It’s nice, though, the silence between them. Comfortable. Mickey asks eventually, “So why advertising?” once he’s finished his food and is nursing his coffee.

Ian shrugs and leans back on his chair, stretching. “I dunno. I was good at English, I guess. Majored in it and Media at college and really enjoyed it, the ideas side of it, and it just kinda… happened.” He shifts until he’s comfortable, his hands resting on the table, body leaning towards Mickey’s, and looks thoughtful for a moment. “I wanted to be in the army first, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. An officer.” Ian barks out a laugh, but it lacks any real humor. “Shit got crazy, stuff went down, and it never happened. So here I am, I guess.” He refocuses on Mickey, fingers playing with the handle of his cup. Mickey is realizing that Ian talks a lot without actually saying anything at all; for all his apparent openness, he’s intensely private, and Mickey respects that. It actually makes Ian a challenge to know. “What about you? Why a coffee shop in NYC?”

Mickey leans away and looks across at the bar. “I dunno. I guess I worked two jobs for four years and thought, fuck it, I could be earning more doing it myself, so it just kinda seemed like the next logical step to open my own business.” He shrugs. “It’s not easy, but I like it better than being some asshole boss’s bitch.”

Ian nods. “It’s awesome. Especially so young.”

“You do what you gotta do, you know.” Mickey tries to stop his face from coloring. He’s not good at accepting compliments, especially from someone like Ian. “And I’m not fucking young. I’m 23.”

“Wow, such an old man,” Ian says mockingly, mouth tugged open in a shit-eating grin, and Mickey flips him off, smiling himself.

“Shut up, asshole.”

Customers arrive then, so Mickey’s break has to come to an abrupt end. He’s disappointed. Standing up, he clears the plates, raises his eyebrows at Ian, and heads back to the counter to grab the menus. Ian winks at him jokingly as he leaves.

The whole exchange puts Mickey in a good mood for the rest of the afternoon.

 

* * *

 

 

One morning, a month after he started coming in every day, Ian just doesn’t turn up. By nine am, Mickey’s starting to worry; he tries to play it off to Mandy by cracking a joke as he makes a customer's toastie – “Where the fuck’s Gallagher? Who’s gonna eat these fucking tuna mayo sandwiches?” – and she just says that he’s having a bad day.

“Sick, or something,” she says. “Why don’t you just text him yourself?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Nah.” He’s reaching for the bread as curiosity strikes him, and although he’s almost too scared to know the answer, he says, “So what’s goin’ on between you two, anyway?”  
“You mean Ian and me?”

“Yea,” Mickey says before he loses his nerve.

“Not… really his type,” Mandy says. Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Ask him yourself.”

“Whatever,” Mickey says, closing the lid on the toaster and walking back towards the counter. He tries to kill the flicker of hope in his chest that just won’t fucking fade before he makes the next coffee, because there’s at least ten orders written up, and he needs to fucking concentrate.

Ian’s back three days later, though, and is looking even paler than usual. His freckles stand out like grains of sand scattered across his skin, a contrast against the bubble-gum pink of his mouth, and his eyes are red and watery.

“Hey, Mick,” he says, easing himself gingerly onto the barstool. Today he’s wearing sweatpants and a ratty t-shirt that matches the color of his eyes – Mickey tells himself he only notices because it’s a change from the usual suits and, damn, Ian has great biceps. Long and pale with plenty of lean muscle, his skin the color of clean-cut cocaine.

“Usual?” Mickey says, tearing his gaze away, and Ian nods. He seems to take up less space than usual, pulling his body into itself, and Mickey asks, “You been okay?”

“Yeah. Just… y’know,” he says, folding his hands into his lap, “unwell.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “We missed ya.” He smirks a little and starts grinding the beans into the group-head.

Ian seems to perk up, at that; he smiles. “Really?”

“Yeah; there wasn’t anyone to bug me while I make coffee,” Mickey says, slotting the group into place and pushing the button to flush water through. “Or eat those fuckin’ awful sandwiches you like. Mandy and I had to take ‘em home for dinner.”

Mickey starts steaming the milk. Ian looks away, still looking pleased, and Mickey’s stomach sort of… flips. He pours the milk into the coffee and makes sure that the caramel-colored crema mixed in with the frothy head is in the shape of a dick.

Ian laughs as soon as he sees it. “Thanks.”

Mickey shrugs and rubs at the back of his neck with his hand. “So, you and Mandy…”

“What do you mean?” Ian says, looking up. He takes a sip of his coffee and ends up with foam on his upper lip; Mickey really, really wants to lick it off.

“Uh, you dating?”

Ian snorts out an amused laugh, spilling coffee over the sides of the cup. “Mandy’s great, but no. I’m not exactly…” he shrugs.

“Yeah?”

“Well, I’m gay,” Ian says, very casually, as if he’s commenting on the weather and not something as personal as sexuality.

Mickey could honestly start singing along to Cursive’s Mama, I’m Swollen, right now, he’s that pleased. Instead, he says, “Cool,” and starts flushing the machine.

Ian looks weary. “You got a problem with that?”

A problem? Mickey thinks, struggling to keep the smile off his face. “Nah.” Wiping at the nozzle on the machine, he says, “Me too.” He looks up at Ian. “I mean, I’m fuckin’ gay, too.”

A customer appears at the counter then, wanting to order a takeaway, so their conversation is interrupted. Before he even realizes it, Mickey’s suddenly run off his feet with five breakfast orders and six coffees. It’s not mentioned again. Still, Mickey could swear that Ian looked at least a tiny bit happier when he left than when he first walked in.

 

* * *

 

Mickey comes in the shower five times the following week to thoughts of red hair and a dick in his ass.

 

* * *

 

"What's your favorite food?" Ian says one morning, staring around the coffee machine at Mickey, unfairly long fingers rapped around a cup of coffee.

"Jell-O," Mickey says. He leaves to serve a customer; when he returns, Ian's still looking intensely at him.

"No, I mean, like, savory. Dinner food. And be specific. "

Biting his lip, Mickey says, "Er." He grabs the bacon from the fridge. "Goulash and _kartoplya varenyky_." Ian stares at him blankly. "Ukrainian potato dumplings with meat stew? You know it?"

"Never tried it."

"You're missing out, man. My mom used to cook it for my dad at least once a week."

Ian looks thoughtfully into the bottom of his mug. "Sounds great."

"Yeah," Mickey says, redundantly, and goes into the kitchen to cook eggs.

Later that evening, when Mickey's finally settled on his couch with a beer in one hand and the television remote in the other, there's a knock at the front door.

Mandy didn't tell him anyone was coming over.

Micky’s heart rate picks up. He reaches under the couch and feels around for his .22, eases himself off the sofa quietly; steps forward; assumes a weaver-stance as he loads the clip. The pipes are hissing, so Mandy must be in the shower - one less person to defend if... He doesn't want - can't - think about his father right now. Moving towards the door, he takes a breath, hesitates, and peers through the viewer -

Only to see a shock of bright red hair above a face filled with too many freckles.

Swearing under his breath, Mickey releases his death grip on the pistol and yanks the door open. Ian’s standing on the other side, a bag of what appears to be fucking groceries in one hand and a six pack of beer in the other, and he looks like he was about to smile, but the expression flickers and dies at the sight of the gun.

“What the fuck, Gallagher?” Mickey says.

“Um,” Ian says. “I was gonna cook you dinner.” Mickey just stares at him. Ian has the decency to look slightly sheepish before he tightens his jaw and pulls his shoulders back. “Can I come in?”

“Whatever, man,” Mickey says, stepping aside, flicking the safety on. “Mandy’s in the shower.”

“Sure,” Ian says, and he smiles. “Nice place.”

Mickey grunts. It’s really not. He watches Ian’s eyes trace their apartment – the dull light that leaks through the curtains onto the stained carpet, the couch and television taking up center space, the cans of beer and soda scattered across the floor. It stinks like stale smoke, weed, and beer, and it’s a fucking mess. He’d apologize, but he’s really not sorry, and it’s not like Ian gave them any warning. “It’s a place to sleep.” Moving to the sofa, he flops unceremoniously onto one of the cushions and turns on the TV. He figures Ian’s probably here just to see Mandy, anyway, so he’s honestly surprised when Ian sits down next to him, so close that their thighs press together.

“I googled and found a recipe for those potato dumplings you like,” Ian says, after a beat. Mickey looks at him. “I’m cooking them with the goulash.”

If Mickey was surprised before, he’s fucking stunned, now. “Uh…” he says. How the fuck does someone respond to that? He just stares at Ian, who’s doing that shy, pleased smile thing. Thankfully Mandy saves him. She walks in, sees Ian, and launches herself at him, yelling his name. Mickey rolls his eyes and keeps watching TV. “Douchebags,” he mutters, pretending that Ian said nothing at all.

Dinner isn’t mentioned for another fifteen minutes, when Ian says, “There’s stuff in this bag that’ll spoil. Can I put it in the fridge or start cooking or something?”

“You’re cooking?” Mandy says.

“ _Kartoplya varenyky_ , apparently," Mickey says dryly.

“With goulash?”

“Yeah,” Ian says.

Mandy sends Mickey a Significant Look, which he intentionally ignores. “That’s Mickey’s favorite.”

“Figured he’d been working hard recently,” Ian says casually, shrugging, like it isn’t a big deal. “Thought he deserved something nice.”

It makes Mickey feel strangely good.

Mandy and Ian leave Mickey on the couch and head into the kitchen. Mickey hesitates, but ends up following them anyway, telling himself that it’s because he wants to supervise and make sure that Ian’s gonna cook this properly. He ends up intervening, anyway, because Ian can’t chop meat or roll varenyky for shit, so he pushes Ian out of the way and shows him how to do it.

“Whatever you say, _Mykhailo_ ,” Mandy says teasingly as she watches from the kitchen table. Mickey flips her off.

“Not my fucking name.”

Ian just laughs. He seems impressed with Mickey’s cooking knowledge, anyway, and keeps pressing way too close to Mickey side as he watches what he’s doing. It’s domestic. Comforting. There’s a lot of banter flying around, not to mention delicious smells, and for the first time since they moved to NYC, Mickey feels like this apartment is actually a home.

They end up eating in front of the TV with their plates on their knees, and Mandy says, “This was a great idea, Ian.”

Mickey makes an incoherent noise into his goulash. It’s pretty fucking good. Almost as good as his mom’s was, even.

“There’s Jell-O for dessert, too, with angel food cake,” Ian says, before shoveling another forkful into his mouth. Mickey’s eyes widen.

“Be careful; he’ll make a wife out of you yet,” Mandy says, looking across at Mickey, who proceeds to choke on a lump of meat. Irony.

Ian just laughs it off and raises his soda bottle to his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

Ian invites them to a party. Mandy drags Mickey along, almost literally.

Mickey totally doesn’t spend almost twenty minutes getting ready.

It’s at Ian’s apartment around the corner from the café. The dull thud of the bass is bleeding through the walls to street outside, and Mickey’s palms are already sweating.

“Go in without me. I need a cigarette,” he says, glaring at the doorway and moving to lean against a streetlight. Mandy rolls her eyes and sighs loudly. She leaves anyway.

The street is quiet and dusted by halogen light. It allows Mickey to pull his thoughts together, to psych himself up for a few hours of socializing. New York feels like home in a way Chicago never did, now, but it doesn’t mean he’s any better at the whole people thing. So he breathes in the sharp scent of gasoline and concrete, lights a cigarette, and rubs at his mouth with his hand.

“Mandy said you were here,” a familiar voice says, and then Ian’s loping across the pavement towards him. Mickey straightens, breathing smoke out his nose, and looks at the cigarette pressed between his fingers. He says nothing. He’s not really sure why Ian’s even come out to find him. “You coming up?”

“Eventually,” Mickey says, and takes another drag. “I’m not…”

Ian smiles. He bounces on the balls of his feet and says, “I get it,” before regarding Mickey carefully. They’re silent for a moment, before: “Can I get you a drink?”

“Got beer?”

“Yeah,” Ian says, “I’ll grab one for you.” And he’s gone, disappearing back into the foyer of his apartment block. Mickey sighs, wondering what the fuck he’s doing here, really. He hates strangers; he hates shitty music; he hates being packed like sardines into a too-hot room with a bunch of other people.

Ian’s back in no longer than two minutes, a beer clutched in hand. He pulls the top off with his teeth and hands it to Mickey, who nods his thanks, their fingers brushing as he takes the bottle. “Not drinking?” Mickey says, quirking an eyebrow before taking a swill.

“Nah,” Ian says, looking a little sheepish. Mickey shrugs it off before downing half the bottle in a few gulps. Mandy’s why he’s here, he thinks bitterly, whilst a tiny voice at the back of his head whispers, _and Ian_.

Ian, whose head is now tipped back as he stares at the sky, skin glowing in the half-light cast by the ambient glow of the city and the moon. “I miss the stars.”

“They’re not goin’ anywhere,” Mickey says.

Ian rolls his eyes. “You can’t see them properly from the city. Light pollution.”

Mickey thinks, _who’d need the stars when they already have constellations scattered across their skin_ , but the thought makes him uncomfortable. He shifts, throws the cigarette to the pavement, and stamps it out with his foot. Ian gestures for Mickey to follow him and grabs Mickey’s wrist, long fingers wrapping around his pulse point. Warmth instantly floods Mickey’s stomach. He thinks, when the fuck did I become such a cliché, and follows Ian up the staircase.

 

* * *

 

 

“That’s my brother, Lip,” Ian says, gesturing to a guy with fuzzy hair and his tongue shoved down another dude’s throat on the couch, “and his boyfriend Joaquin.”

Mickey frowns and says, “Is your entire family fuckin’ gay, or something?” He’s completely ignoring the fact that Ian’s hand hasn’t left his wrist since they entered the apartment five minutes ago. Ian laughs. Mickey’s worried that he’s going to get addicted to the sound.

  
Ian just laughs. “Nah, Lip’s bi. He dated Amanda before Joaquin.” He's pointing to a pretty girl who’s currently engaged in very enthusiastic conversation with Mandy. “My sister’s dating a girl called Angela, though,” Ian continues, “so I guess we’re a pretty queer family. Fiona and Angela live in Chicago with my younger siblings."

“Huh.” Mickey rubs at his face.

Honestly, the party’s not entirely as terrible as Mickey was expecting. He’s still a bit like a fish out of water, but there’s only about 30 people in the room, and the apartment’s pretty nice. Well, much nicer than Mickey and Mandy’s - wide windows, a small terrace, an open plan kitchen and living space with an unrendered brick wall. It’s… cozy. Mickey still feels a little out of element, though, as he follows either or Ian or Mandy around the room, occasionally joining conversations but mostly just watching. Mostly watching Ian, really - he gesticulates a lot when he talks, a lot of wide hand movements to accompany his perpetual grin, and Mickey’s kinda mesmerized, truth be told.

Avicii’s _Hope There’s Someone_ is playing through Ian and Lip's rather impressive sound system and Mickey’s on his third beer by the time Mandy pulls Mickey into the corner and says, “Just take a fucking picture, God. It’ll last longer.”

Mickey almost chokes on his beer. What the fuck? “What the fuck are you talking about?” he says out loud.

“You’re so fucking obvious.”

Looking across the room to where Ian is currently talking to someone who is apparently one of Lip’s friends, Mickey says, “It’s not…” but he has no defense, really. Mandy’s right. Mickey pulls a face and runs his tongue along his bottom lip.

“Yeah, right,” Mandy says. “You could cut the sexual tension with a knife. You gotta do something about it, man.” She gives him a significant look and walks across to where Amanda’s standing by the fridge.

Rubbing a hand across his mouth, Mickey decides he needs some fresh air and a fucking cigarette. He downs his current beer, drops the bottle into the trash, and grabs another from the ice bucket before he moves across to the terrace doors and lets himself out.

It’s been raining. The air smells like damp concrete and car exhaust, and it’s strangely comforting. Mickey lights up and gazes down to the street below as he leans against the barrier. A car door slams. Someone honks their horn. Somewhere in the distance a siren sounds, a high wail against the steady beat coming from the party behind him.

To be honest, he doesn’t know what to do about Ian. The dude’s like a fucking fire; persistent flames that just won’t burn out or give up. He’s infuriating, and irritating as fuck, and his energy makes Mickey dizzy. But he’s also sweet, and funny in a really dumb kinda way, and hot as fucking hell. And definitely becoming one of Mickey’s best friends. Mickey sighs irritably. He’s totally fucked, really, no matter which way you cut it.

He just doesn’t know if he can do this.

Behind him, the door opens, warmer air rushing out and kissing the back of Mickey’s neck. Mickey knows who it is before he even speaks. “Hey, Mick. You alright?” Ian appears to Mickey’s left, resting his weight on his forearms as he, too, leans against the barrier. Their shoulders brush.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, shrugging. “Fine. Just wanted some air.” He offers the pack of cigarettes to Ian, who shakes his head.

“Nah. Thanks. I quit when I moved to New York.”

Ian’s mouth is curled into a small, private grin. Mickey studies him in the muted light cast from inside: the sharp, angular planes of his profile; his mussed hair; crystalline eyes; the edges of his face blurred by alcohol and the night. He’s so pale that he’s glowing again, like he was before outside on the street, and Mickey really, really wants to kiss him.

“I thought I’d miss Chicago,” Ian says, quietly, gazing out over Manhattan. The clouds are heavy, low, and the city is hazy with water and pollution as the light bleeds though the mist.

“I didn’t,” Mickey says. He takes another drag, breathes the smoke out his nose, watches it hang on the air as he turns away from Ian. “Chi-town’s full of bad blood.” Ian turns to look at him; Mickey watches him out of the corner of his eye. He knows that there’s an unanswered question hanging between them, thick like the smoke he just exhaled, and he says, “My dad.”

Ian makes a noise, like he understands. “I don’t know who mine is. Guess I’m lucky.”

“Frank not your dad?”

“We think his brother is.”

Taking another swill from his bottle, Mickey snorts. “Typical.”

“So Southside, right?” Ian laughs. He turns to face Mickey, and suddenly he’s very, very close; Mickey thinks he could start counting Ian’s freckles, if he wanted to. His breath catches in his throat.

Ian sort of starts to reach across, then, lids heavy, mouth open, pupils blown in the dim light. He smells like sweat and cologne and, strangely, like cinnamon.

“Mick,” he says, voice rough, hand sort of suspended between them like another unanswered question. Mickey clears his throat, half-hoping the moment will snap. It doesn’t. Ian’s lips are right there, pink and full, damp breath pressing against the skin below Mickey’s nose, and Ian’s hand drops to Mickey’s arm, his fingers gripping the material of Mickey’s shirt as he leans forward –

The door opens; another rush of air, and a, “Oh, Ian, I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

The moment shatters.

Ian pulls away from Mickey, disappointment flittering across his face so quickly that Mickey’s not sure if was even there in the first place. Ryan or Brian or whateverthefuck the asshole who just stepped outside’s name is hesitates in the doorway. Mickey’s left half-hard and wanting; he shifts to try and cover his very obvious boner, and fuck, Ian didn’t even touch him.

“Brian,” Ian says, stepping forward.

“I’m just gonna –“ Mickey says, picking up his beer bottle from the ground and pushing past Brian. To be honest, he’s fucking furious with himself - humiliated, uncomfortable, his skin hot and prickling. He makes his way directly to the bathroom and locks himself inside, trying to calm his racing pulse, to pull himself back together.

His dick is now straining at his jeans. The alcohol’s making his head fuzzy; he can only focus intensely on one thing at once, and he’s finding it increasingly irritating. He and Ian almost kissed. Mickey’s not really sure where he can go from here.

The only thing he does know is that his boner’s not gonna relent anytime soon. His mind keeps refocusing on thoughts of Ian’s mouth on his, progressing to Ian’s full red lips stretched around Mickey’s dick.

Sitting on the on the lid of the toilet, he unzips his jeans, pulling his dick out of his underwear. It’s instant relief. He fists the length, braces himself against the sink, and experimentally rubs his hand up and down.

Yeah, he’s got this.

Closing his eyes, mouth open, and starts to stroke himself in earnest. He feels the heat creep across his skin, up over his neck, the pressure building in the base of his dick –

\- There’s the snick of a doorhandle. Mickey opens his eyes and sees Ian standing outside, mouth open, caught half inside and half out like he’s not sure if he should stay or leave. It’s Mickey fantasy standing here before him, caught in the halogen glow, eyes wide, hair mussed.

Evidently the door was left unlocked. Fuck it.

“I didn’t-“ Ian begins, but Mickey, brain non-functional at this stage, too turned on to be embarrassed, says, “Are you comin’ in, or what?” It’s obvious that this is where they were headed anyway. Well, maybe not the bathroom, but.

Ian visibly swallows and steps inside, locking the door behind him. “Um,” he says, taking in Mickey’s dishevelled appearance, eyes lingering on Mickey’s dick.

“You good?” Mickey says, and Ian nods, once, coherency obviously as gone as Mickey’s is, so Mickey begins by undoing the belt on Ian’s very skinny, very tight, very black jeans. They looked great on, but they look even better off.

Ian seems to shake off some of the shock, says, “We really doing this? Here?” and Mickey shrugs. “I have a room.”

Pushing aside Ian’s pants, Mickey wraps his hand around Ian’s very sizable dick and groans. “Too late,” he says, and leans his face against Ian’s shoulder. “Wanna talk, or get on me?”

Ian’s all action, then. Suddenly he’s pushing Mickey’s pants down and pulling off his own shirt – which is a dark green tank that sets off the colour of his hair and brings out his eyes, and Mickey thinks that might be the gayest thought he’s ever had. Fuck, Ian’s the person he’s had the gayest thoughts about, period, and he’s mostly okay with that.

Grasping Mickey’s dick, Ian squeezes, rubs his palm up the length, and bites at the skin of Mickey’s neck. Mickey whimpers. He’s tempted to drop to the floor, to swallow Ian’s dick down as far as he can, but Ian almost seems to read his mind and kneels himself. Looking up at Mickey through his lashes, Ian grasps Mickey’s ass and experimentally runs his tongue from the root to the tip of Mickey’s dick. Mickey grips the basin behind him in case his knees give out.

Ian wraps his warm, damp mouth around him, and Mickey makes a sound a bit like he’s been punched.

Next Ian’s grabbing Mickey’s hands and guiding them into his hair, encouraging him to pull at it, and Mickey tugs only a little before stroking the backs of his fingers against Ian’s ears, down his cheeks, across the bolt of his jaw. This seems to encourage Ian; he starts fucking his mouth on Mickey’s dick, making these obscene wet sucking noises as he does. Mickey ends up running his fingers through Ian’s loose curls, Ian’s hair is so soft, and it makes Ian moan.

“Fuck,” Mickey says very loudly; he’s not going to last much longer, at this rate. “So fucking good, Ian.”

Ian hollows his cheeks, does something with his tongue Mickey didn’t think was possible, and then Mickey’s trying to tug Ian off, because he’s about to come. Ian just squeezes the back of Mickey’s thigh even harder with one hand and presses against Mickey perineum with the other.

Mickey has to bite his hand to stop himself from yelling out.

Ian licks Mickey clean before he pulls himself up and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He’s grinning like all his fucking Christmases have come at once or some shit, and Mickey figures it’s about time he lost some of that attitude. He runs his tongue across his palm until it’s damp and grasps Ian’s cock, tugging it in earnest, watching Ian’s body language to try and map what Ian likes.

Pushing Ian in front of him, they both stare into the mirror above the sink. It’s so fucking hot, watching Ian’s expressions as Mickey works him. He’s panting now, his hair a total mess. A flush is working its way across his chest, and damn does he have a great body. It looks even better sweaty and red as he slowly comes undone.

“Mick.” It’s more a groan than a word. Ian’s head is tossed back, hands fisted at his side, and he’s not even trying to stop the noises that fall from his mouth. He comes hot and sticky against Mickey’s palm a few moments later, repeating ‘Mick’ over and over like some sort of prayer.

The comedown is slow; Mickey drifts on the post-orgasm afterglow and the limited buzz of the alcohol. Ian keeps smiling as he tucks himself back into the criminally tight jeans and pulls on his shirt. Soon they’re both standing fully clothed in the tiny space, Ian staring expectantly at Mickey as he washes his hands, Mickey trying to look anywhere but Ian. It’s not so much awkward as Mickey’s not really sure where to go from here, and not for the first time this evening.

Someone should say something, he thinks. The moment stretches, tension long and thick and near tangible as Mickey dries his hands. He’s scared. He knows Ian wants some kind of positive affirmation about what they’ve just done, but Mickey’s not sure he can offer what Ian wants. The enormity of Ian actually wanting him is overwhelming.

Ian’s leaning forward, now, and time sort of slows down for Mickey. Ian wants to kiss him.

Kissing would be easier than words, at this point, but the intimacy is too much for Mickey. It might have been okay before, on the terrace, but after all… that, it would mean too much, too soon. He can’t. He dodges Ian’s mouth, ignores Ian’s very disappointed, confused expression, and shoves past him to unlock the door.

Mickey leaves the bathroom.

Trying to ignore the guilt that settles hot and heavy in his stomach, he summons all the steely resolve he can muster, and marches straight up to Mandy as soon as he reaches the living room. “I’m going.”

Mandy frowns. “I’m not ready, asshole.”

“Yeah, well, you can stay,” he says. “I gotta get up early tomorrow; it’s a Saturday.” Mandy looks concerned, but Mickey pays little attention. He wants to get out of here before Ian inevitably comes back into the room. Ian will want to talk, Mickey knows; he’s that type.

Grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch, he shrugs it on, and heads straight out the door.

 

* * *

 

It’s the day after the party, and Ian hasn’t been in yet.

Ian hasn’t been in yet, and there’s a kid running around the café with the Stevia tablet packet he pilfered from the sugars tray who’s trying to sell the tablets to customers as ecstasy.

Mickey doesn’t really have the patience to deal with it today, but it’s the mother and the kid he likes, so instead of kicking them out he squats to the little boy’s level as he runs past the cash register and says, “Hey, kid!”

The boy stops and turns around. He has dark hair and cornflower blue eyes and as much eyebrow game as Mickey.

“C’mere for a sec.”

The kid complies. He wanders closer and says, “Would you like an ecstasy, Mr. Grumble?”

“What?”

“You look like Mr. Grumble from the Mr Mans book.”

Mickey sighs and rolls his eyes. “I don’t want any ecstasy. Save your money for coke.” The kid just blinks at him with those big baby blues, so Mickey says irritably, “If you stop trying to sell that shit – and I have no idea how you learned about ecstasy, you only look six – I’ll give you something special.”

The kid looks at him suspiciously. Mickey turns around to the bin where he ditches the grinds and fishes out the most perfectly formed one he can find, before he offers it to the boy, who eyes it speculatively. “What is that, Mr. Grumble?”

“A special kinda cookie. Go give that to someone and watch their face.”

The kid squeals and runs over to his mother, who is hovering by the bar and looking exceedingly unimpressed. “I am sorry,” she says in a heavy Russian accent. “Yev is energetic little boy.”

“I’m trying to run a business here,” Mickey says, pulling a face and avoiding eye contact, but there’s no heat behind. Today’s just one of those days.

The corner of the woman’s mouth quirks up - she’s very pretty. “I am Svetlana. Little one is Yevgeny. We like your café very much.”

“Mickey,” Mickey says. Yevgeny is trying to sell the compacted grounds to a businessman. Mickey suddenly wishes that Ian were here to see this; it’s something he’d undoubtedly find really funny. “Thanks.”

Svetlana pays, waves goodbye, and tugs a now very dirty but smiling Yevgeny out to where their dog is waiting.

Ian’s still not there by mid-afternoon. Mickey says to Mandy, “Ian too tired after last night?” and Mandy shrugs.

“I texted him. No response.”

Pretending not to care, Mickey starts wiping down the machine. “Guess he’s busy.”

Mandy makes a noise in affirmation. There’s a pause, before, “Was everything okay with you last night?”

“What?” Mickey keeps his face very, very blank.

“You left so quickly, I thought…”

“Fine.” He says it quickly, bluntly, leaving no room for further discussion.

Mandy smiles a little at him and goes to serve a customer. Bullet successfully dodged.

 

* * *

 

 

Two days after the party, Ian still hasn’t shown up. There’s been radio silence. Mickey’s freaking out, just a little.

On the forth day, Mickey demands that Mandy give him Ian’s number. He doesn’t even care anymore.

  

 

 

 

> _Text message 12:32pm to IAN_  
>          You okay? It’s Mick. Text me back.

 

 

 

> Text message 3:45pm to IAN
> 
>          The fuck are you Gallagher?

 

He bets Ian’s the sort of really annoying person who uses too many emoticons when he texts, just to piss Mickey off. The thought makes him laugh.

Fuck it, though; he’s worried.

 

* * *

 

On the fifth day, still with no response, Mickey decides that drastic measures are in order.

It’s a Wednesday, so Mandy’s got class when Mickey knocks off work. He closes up, shoulders his bag filled with food, balances the tray filled with coffees in his hand, and heads towards Ian’s apartment.

It’s nearing six pm. The sun is a huge, glowing orange orb on the horizon; New York looks like it’s on fire. It’s a short walk to Ian’s, and on the way Mickey tries to prepare himself for what he wants to say.

By the time he reaches the foyer of Ian’s apartment complex, though, his palms are sweaty and he’s nervous as all fuck. He tries to smooth his hair with his free hand, using the mirror in the elevator on the ride up. Skin chalk white and sallow, the only color in his complexion is the bright red flush that is flowering across his cheekbones. This is probably a really, really bad idea.

The elevator door opens. He figures it’s either go fucking hard or go fucking home. Stalking resolutely to Ian’s door, he raises his fist and knocks. He tries again and swears under his breath when there’s still no answer. This time, he starts pounding, calling Ian’s name. Fuck it. There’s only one thing left to do.

Pulling his bankcard and one of Mandy’s bobby pins from his wallet, Mickey leans close to the doorhandle and tries to hear the tell-tale clicks of the lock give way as he slides the metal in. It’s been a while since he’s picked a lock, but he’s never forgotten the skill, just as he’ll never lose the fuck u-up tattoos on his knuckles or the scars that are scattered across his body.

As he feels the lock about to release, the door opens. Mickey’s left staring at a pair of socked feet and ginger-haired legs.

“The fuck, Mickey?” says Ian’s voice from above him, and Mickey looks up. It’s very obvious what he was attempting.

“You weren’t fuckin’ answering anything; what was I supposed to do?” Mickey says. Standing, he guilty pushes the offending objects into his pockets.

“Be patient, or something.” Ian huffs, walking inside. “I smashed my phone screen and it’s at the repair shop.”

Mickey rubs his hand through his hair, picks up the plastic bag and coffee, and follows. He bites at his lip. “I thought…” he stops himself, takes a breath. “I thought, after Friday, you…”

Ian looks at Mickey, a smile breaking out across his face despite his obvious attempt to remain angry, but it’s edged with sadness. “No,” he says, and sighs. Mickey follows him into his bedroom, where Ian sits on the edge of the bed and looks at him with too-wide bambi eyes. “I’ve been sick.”

“Oh.” On closer inspection, Ian does look tired; dark bruises fan out below his eyes, and his face has a gaunt, pallid sort of quality underneath a few days’ worth of stubble. He’s holding his body like he’s worried it will break if he lets go, his shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his stomach and chest.

Ian turns away and gazes out his bedroom window, like he’s contemplating something. After a pause, he says, resolutely, “I’m bipolar,” and rubs at the back of his neck. Exhaling air through his teeth, he looks back at Mickey. “Med adjustments knock me around. I’m usually out of action for a few days.”

“Huh,” Mickey says, because he’s not sure what else to say. He drops to the mattress beside Ian and touches his arm. “You okay?”

“Almost,” Ian says, and the smile Mickey gets in return is more real, this time. “I will be in about a day.” Ian looks down to where their skin is touching, because Mickey hasn’t moved his hand. Mickey clears his throat shifts away, offering the coffee to Ian.

“I bought food, too,” he says.

“Thanks.” Ian pulls the coffee from the tray, and Mickey takes his own. “Lip’s back in Chicago for the week, so I’ve been living off leftovers and delivered takeout.”

The silence between them is easy. Mickey’s confidence is shot to shit now, though – there’s no way he can resolve this shit with Ian. He looks at his hands.

“So is this, like, a booty call, then?” Ian says, clearly half-joking, but it comes across as more sadly wistful. Mickey looks at Ian, at how fragile and unwell he looks, then around at his room. The bed is a nest of blankets; there are dirty dishes on the floor; the curtains are drawn; and Ian’s laptop’s sitting open on the bed with a half-finished movie, like he was watching it before Mickey arrived. Which, hey, he probably was.

Sex really would not be appropriate, right now. Nor would any sort of serious discussion, probably.

“Naw, I just…” Mickey shakes his head. “Glad you’re okay.” Standing, he passes his empty cup to Ian, who dumps it in a plastic bag that must be serving as a makeshift bin. “I gotta…” He points towards the door. “I’m cooking for Mandy tonight. Burgers.”

“Nice,” Ian says. They say nothing as Ian walks Mickey to the door. “Thanks for the food.”

“’Least I could do.” They stand sort of awkwardly by the door. Ian’s eyes drop to Mickey’s lips. It would be so easy to –

Ian inhales shakily, his gaze flicking back up to meet Mickey’s eyes, and the moment snaps as he looks away again. “Friday was good, if you wanna. You know. Again.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. He reaches for the doorhandle.

“Or,” Ian says, and the rest of his words come out in a single, rushed exhalation, “we could – go on a date.”

Mickey flinches. What the fuck. He panics; he’s never been on a date, and the idea is frightening. He pretends he didn’t hear properly and says, “Gotta go. See ya.”

Ian’s hopeful expression falls, his mouth tightening, eyes widening. It’s the last thing Mickey sees as the door swings shut behind him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Mickey and Mandy are both in kitchen, Mickey washing dishes, Mandy preparing a main course, when Mandy says; “I have a date tonight, by the way.”

“Anyone I know?” Mickey says, stacking the final plate. After mulling over it significantly last night, and researching bipolar disorder on Mandy’s laptop, he’s pushed all thoughts of yesterday afternoon well into the back of his mind.

Mandy pauses. She pushes the plate across the bench to the hatch and wipes her hands before speaking. “Amanda. The girl from the party.”

“Wow,” Mickey says. “Does New York make everyone fuckin’ queer?” but he’s smiling, and he gently hits her shoulder. “Good on you, Mands. She’s at least an 8.”

Mandy hits him back. “Fuck you, asshole.” She grins in return. “Imagine if Terry saw us now. Two queer kids.”

Mickey doesn’t want to think about it; thoughts of Terry make him feel nauseous. He pulls a face and chuckles darkly. “He’d have fucking kittens.”

“Such a great ‘fuck you.’” After a beat, Mandy looks at him closely and says, softer, “What about you and Ian?”

Mickey blanches. The dam cracks. “It’s none of you fucking business.”

“Look, Mickey,” Mandy says, “It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re into each other.” At Mickey’s silence, she sighs irately. “Fuck, man; it’s about time we both got something good. You especially. You’ve worked your goddamn ass off for the past five years so we could both be comfortable, and we’re there, okay. Ian’s a good thing. Stop punishing yourself.” She stalks out of the kitchen to collect the food, preventing Mickey from retorting, leaving him staring into the dirty dishwater and feeling a bit like he’s just been punched.

He rubs a hand across his mouth and up into his hair. God, he wants Ian so badly it almost hurts. He’s petrified, though – overwhelmed. It means a lot of things that Mickey never considered, never thought he’d ever have. Can he do this?

It’s Ian, the fucking annoying voice at the back of his mind supplies. The dam bursts. Ian’s great – better than great. He’s a good thing. Even if they have stuff they need to work out, Mickey can’t lose him.

He _can_ do this, and he knows what he’s gotta fucking do.

 

* * *

 

 

Ian turns up later that afternoon dressed in one of his work suits, sunset orange hair as curly as ever. “Hey, Mick,” he says when he reaches the counter. He looks weary, uncomfortable, and his usually bright smile is wan. “Can I have my usual?”

Mickey braces himself.

“I’ll do it,” he says, the words tumbling out in a rush.

“Huh?”

Fuck it, Mickey thinks. He’s not gonna be good with words – this needs action. He glances around the shop, checking that everything’s safe, and he steps out from behind the counter. Ian eyes him curiously. Mickey’s gaze lands on to Ian’s full lips. He licks his own. This is – yes.

He reaches out, touches the back of Ian’s neck, and pulls him forward. Their mouths crash together. Ian makes a surprised, pleased sound; Mickey’s licking at the seam of his lips, running his fingers up through Ian’s curls, hanging on as a wave of dizziness slams into him and the world falls away. It’s a snarl of lip and tongue in rough concert, better than anything Mickey’s ever imagined.

Mickey pulls away first. He’s panting, face flushed. They couldn’t have kissed for much longer than ten seconds, but it feels like it could have been hours. Ian’s eyelids flutter open.

“Oh,” he says, sounding surprised.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He pulls Ian against him, pressing his mouth against Ian’s neck. “What I meant was, I’ll go on a date. With you.”

Dully, he registers the sound of people clapping. He pulls away from Ian. Some of the customers are giving them a standing ovation, others smiling awkwardly, and Mandy’s grinning at them from behind the bar. “Fucking finally, God,” she says, rolling her eyes and disappearing back into the kitchen.

Mickey looks at Ian’s face for the first time. “That was dramatic,” Ian says, mouth curling upwards. “Not to mention really fucking hot.”

Eyebrows twitching towards his hairline, Mickey says impatiently, “So? We doing this?”

Expression softening, Ian says, “A date. Yes.” Mickey smiles so fucking wide his cheeks ache. “One condition, though.”

“What?” Mickey's apprehensive.

“I get my medium drip with caramel syrup and cream at Starbucks.” Ian waggles his eyebrows. “For posterity.”

Mickey purses his lips. “The hell even is that.” Shaking his head, he can’t stop smiling. “Not fucking coffee, that’s for sure.”

“Whatever you say, old man Mick. I better leave you to your customers.”

“This isn’t over, fuckhead.”

Ian assumes his usual position at the front counter, still grinning, still looking as pleased as Mickey feels as he pulls out his laptop. “You bet it isn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> come roll /w me on tumblr; i love new friends!!! [hubrisandwax](http://hubrisandwax.tublr.com)


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